


SanSan Drabbles NSFW

by NoodleBuddy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All characters are of age!, F/M, Fingering, Plot Bunnies Everywhere, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Slave auction, Sweetness and light, Tags to be added, childhood friends story within, shhh - Freeform, take some sansan my dudes, taking requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoodleBuddy/pseuds/NoodleBuddy
Summary: Buncha random NSFW SanSan drabbles. Feel free to leave suggestions or concrit!This is a mix of show and book canon, with some of my own imaginings thrown in here and there.





	1. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a year since Sandor fled the Battle of the Blackwater to Essos. Now, he's a skilled sellsword going by the name "Vorsakko". One day, he's guarding a slave auction, when he sights someone oddly familiar...

Sandor had been travelling nonstop since the Battle of the Blackwater, never staying in one spot for more than a week, and now, a year later, he was in Essos. More specifically, he was wandering Myr without destination, and without home. His gold he'd brought with him from King's Landing was all but gone, but he'd found that plenty in Essos were willing to buy his services for an adequate price: merchants wanting good, strong company on the road to protect from thieves, noblemen wanting their enemies gone from the city, even some fighting pits were willing to pay to have him fight a few rounds. 

Everywhere he went, there were slaves, and where there weren't slaves, there were Unsullied. Sandor didn't care for either. The Unsullied all had a stick up their collective arses, and the slaves? They were tormented on a daily basis. He told himself that guarding them as 'merchandise' was no worse than anything he'd done before, but it took more than a few cups of wine to swallow that lie. It was too much like what he'd done a year ago. Keeping a poor girl trapped in a gilded cage with a monster. 

He took another long swallow from his wineskin as he watched the proceedings. Minoan had been preaching up on his stage for the past hour, yelping something in his high, squeaky voice about "the finest women from across the narrow sea, you'll never see the like ever again!". Sandor kept his mouth shut and glared at the gathering crowd through his helmet. He was garbed in strange, Essosi clothes: a shirt that bared his arms, light, cotton trousers, and a curved blade, (not unlike the Dothraki's,) hung on his belt with his broadsword. A year ago, he would have balked at the idea that he'd be wearing these sorts of garments in favor of his usual armor, but a wandering group of about 10 Dothraki taught him otherwise. 

_"These steel dresses make you slow, Andal," Rhalako had told him. "Speed always overtakes size."_

_"You should tell that to all the speedy little knights I've bested, Horselord," he had replied._

_"You have size in plenty! Learn speed," Rhalako insisted._

Sandor had.

Women, mostly naked and bound in a line, were paraded out on stage. Most had pale skin, and all had veils over their faces. A woman with curly brown hair was released from her shackles and led to the front of the stage. Minoan started to prattle, and removed the woman's veil. Sandor saw her eyes, puffy from crying, and looked away, allowing his eyes to wander to the other slaves-to-be. The next one in the line had a purple veil, and the next, and the next, and the next. On closer inspection, _all_ the women had purple veils but one. The one at the end had a white veil. What the hell did that mean?

He walked casually closer to the "merchandise", hoping to get a better look at the woman with the white veil. She was startling, to say the least. Even without seeing her face, he could tell that she was a true beauty. Long, red hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back, brushed and shimmering in the sunlight. Her skin was so pale, it appeared almost to be glowing, and her breasts, which were bared like the other slaves, were wondrously shaped and tipped with rosy, pink nipples. If he were in Westeros, he could almost swear it was _her_. But it couldn't be. Last he'd heard, she was off married to the Imp. 

He took his eyes from the slave girl and resumed glaring at the crowd. Minoan sold the woman with curly hair. Then the next woman. Then the next. Until eventually, they got to the redhead with the white veil. 

"This," Minoan said. "Is a true, rare beauty! Untouched by men. Hair, that, in her culture, they call 'kissed by fire'."

 _A wildling?_ Sandor thought. Wasn't that how they described redheads north of the wall?

Minoan tore the cloth from the woman's waist, exposing the red hair there. "All natural," Minoan boasted. The crowd was enthralled. Sandor did his best to remain uninterested. Still, he couldn't help but notice the way the woman stiffened uncomfortably at Minoan's touch. It made him angry. 

"The kings in her land have a right, called 'First Night'-" (Sandor snorted. It was an archaic custom, where a king was given to fuck a woman on her wedding night instead of her husband, and it had died hundreds of years before he was even born.) "where a noble virgin was required to give her first night to the king, if he so asked, on her wedding day. Tomorrow, this lady, for she was a lady back in her homelands-" (That gave Sandor pause. A lady? Here? Minoan had to be lying.) "will be married to the highest bidder. But for tonight, one of you shall be a king, and claim your right to 'First Night'!"

Minoan gently raised the woman's white veil, and Sandor's heart dropped to his stomach. The crowd went wild.

"Bird," he choked out before he could stop himself. Minoan glanced curiously back at him before looking back to the vigorously bidding crowd. 

Sansa. Sansa Stark was here. Naked and paraded out in front of a huge group of slobbering men in silks. A mix of emotions flew around inside him. Hatred, possessiveness, horror, panic, and strangely, joy. She was here. Within his reach for the first time in a _year_. He looked at the crowd and ground his teeth furiously inside his helmet. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. They had no right to look at the Little Bird that way. Nobody did. He reached for his purse, which was heavy with gold, and marched straight for Minoan, placing himself directly between the squeaky voiced man and the mass of people. He thrusted his entire purse in the man's face. Minoan looked shocked, then laughed.

"It appears, my dear friend, Vorsakko, has found himself smitten!" Minoan laughed to the crowd. Sansa wasn't looking at him. She was simply staring ahead with a blank expression. 

"There's 600 gold honors in this bag," he rasped. "I promise you 5,000 more on the morrow, and you know I'll pay. A dog doesn't lie."

Sandor could see the greed leaking into Minoan's eyes as he sidestepped Sandor to address the crowd. 

"Can anyone here outbid Vorsakko's bid of 5,600 gold honors?"

The crowd was silent. Sansa was looking at him.

\----------------

Sandor led Sansa by the arm into the perfumed tent beside the auction. She didn't seem to know who he was. To her, he was still "Vorsakko," the monster who was about to fuck her bloody. The instant she was inside, however, he quickly took a blanket off the bed and swung it over her shoulders. Then, he took off his helmet. She gasped.

"Sandor?" she whispered, disbelieving. "But-but how?"

"Does it matter?" he rasped. "You're safe now, Little Bird."

She looked on the verge of panic.

"No, no, no..." she whimpered, her face in her hands. 

"We're leaving," he commanded, hand on his curved, Dothraki blade. "You refused at the Blackwater, I doubt you'll deny me now."

He grabbed her arm, intending to march her straight out of the tent and onto the nearest ship to Dorne. She pulled back, digging her heels into the soft earth floor.

"No!" she hissed. Sandor stared at her incredulously. 

"Are you bleedin' mad, girl? You're to be sold tomorrow, and I just spent a third of all the gold I've got just gettin' your 'First bloody Night'!" he barked, his voice steadily rising in volume. "I'm about two fuckin' seconds away from puttin' you over my shoulder an-"

She jumped forward, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she flew to put both her hands over his mouth. 

"Shhh!" Sansa commanded. "I'm not mad, and I'm not a girl, and you need to be quiet! Do you really think the masters would let me come in here with you without some insurance? There are enough guards out there even to kill you!"

Sandor was silent. Sansa removed her hands from his mouth and reached once more for the blanket, seemed to think better of it, and simply sat, naked on the bed. She gestured for Sandor to sit next to her, which he did. How she could still seem so much like a Noble Lady a thousand miles from home and with her tits hanging out amazed him. 

"How did you get here?" Sandor asked before he could stop himself. 

"Does it matter?" she replied, back straight as a ramrod, but her eyes surprisingly warm. 

"Yes," he growled back.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to put a sword through the gullet of the man who sold you," he told her, bluntly. She smiled at him.

"The man who just sold me is your friend, if I recall," she said, not really saying anything. 

"Fuck Minoan. Who sold you to him? How did you end up here?" he growled, low and dangerous. She was silent for a moment, looking down at her feet like she used to in King's Landing. 

"Lord Baelish thought it wise that we flee across the Narrow Sea. He thought Essos would be the perfect place to hide, but we were attacked on the road... and... Essos was not the best place to hide. A hoard of Dothraki had me for a while. Petyr tried to protect me, but... well...." She swallowed. "After they killed him, they forgot about raping me, so I suppose he did, in a way. Then the hoard sold me to to this master, who's specialty is Westerosi, and... here I am."

"How did he know you were a Noble Lady?" he asked fervently. If rumors of a red-haired Westerosi noblewoman made it to the ears of Varys's little birds, he'd have a hell of a time keeping her safe. 

"He didn't," she said, dully. She glanced to the opening of the tent, then rose from his side to stand before him, breasts swaying dangerously close to his face. "We should get started," she mumbled. His eyes shot up to hers incredulously.

"What?" he asked, sure his ears must be deceiving him. 

"We should... you know," she said, gesturing incoherently to his lower half. He furrowed his remaining eyebrow furiously.

"No," he said, leaving no room for argument. It was an offer he'd been dreaming of for over a year, though made under entirely different circumstances. There was no way in hell he would do it here, when she had no choice, when some fuckers outside were listening and getting off to the sounds of them fucking. No. 

"But, Sandor-"

"No. I've no taste for rape."

"Sandor, you wouldn't be raping me-"

"But you don't want me, do you?" It was his turn to rise, towering over her small, womanly frame with his enormous, masculine one. She looked up at him with wide, sapphire eyes, reminding him a bit of a doe caught on the wrong end of an arrow. She looked down at her feet again and took a deep breath, gathering courage.

"Sandor, they will be checking me after you let me go. If my purity is still intact, they won't hesitate like you are now."

It was a cold response. A cold, hearbreakingly logical response from a girl who, last time he'd seen her, had had her head full of songs and tales of true love. 

"Please," she asked, her voice not above a whisper. He swallowed, then gently took hold of her chin and tilted her eyes up to meet his. She was achingly beautiful.

"Kiss me," he ordered. She furrowed her eyebrows. 

"What?" she asked, bewilderment clear in her voice. Sandor felt a flash of irritation.

"If you cannot bring yourself to do even that, I don't see how we're going to do anything else," he tried to reason, feeling defensive. She blushed, and he couldn't help but notice that the blush went from her cheeks to the very tops of her breasts. She stepped closer to him, so close he could feel the heat of her through his clothes. He crossed his arms and drew himself to his full height, daring her. Then, to his surprise, she rose to the tips of her toes, took hold of his face, and drew him down to place a chaste kiss on his burned cheek. He could scarcely feel her, but it was enough. He gently drew one knuckle over her cheek, brushing away stray locks of flame-colored hair. 

"Close your eyes," he whispered. She obliged. He gazed down at her, pondering. She probably expected, no, _wanted_ this to be quick and businesslike. Half of him wanted to give her exactly what she wanted, then sling her over his shoulder and fuck right on out of there. The other half told him that he wouldn't get another chance at this ever again. Maybe... just maybe... if he was good enough...

He leaned forward and captured her lips in his. She kept her lips mashed together in a tight line at first, but slowly, they became softer and more yielding. He smoothed his hand over her face, then the base of her neck, never breaking contact. She shivered and opened her mouth a little instinctively. He took advantage immediately, taking his chance to nip and suck and plunder as he pleased. So it was true what the whores said, about women liking it slower and more gentle...

Sansa pulled away abruptly, opening her lust-glazed eyes to see, but he quickly brushed them closed again with his fingers. It would be easier for her if she did not have to see his face. That way, maybe he could pretend it was someone else. Perhaps one of those pretty little knights she so admired. He kissed her again, this time with no resistance, and even _reciprocation_. As clumsy as she was, (he doubted anyone else had ever kissed her this way before) she kissed him back, and was learning quickly. She mimicked his movements, unconsciously pressing herself flush to him and winding her fingers through his hair. He ran his fingers up and down her back, and she moaned.

 _That was good,_ he thought. _Let's see if we can do better._ He hooked his hands around her thighs and lifted her up, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist. She pulled back from him again as he sat on the bed, her eyes wide and surprised. He went to close them again, but she caught his hand in hers.

"No," she said. "I'll look upon your face, tonight."

"You won't like it," he argued.

"Isn't that for me to decide?" She smiled at him, kindess and permission there. Permission to be Sandor Clegane.

"Do you trust me, Little Bird?" he asked in a fit of stupidity. Sansa nodded without hesitation. He dipped his head and proceeded to place open-mouthed kisses over her neck, trailing down to her collarbone, then taking the tip of her breast into his mouth. She gasped and clutched him. He smirked at her reaction and laved his tongue over her tit, nipping the flesh there. She rocked into his touch and he rewarded her by reaching between them, cupping her bare sex and rubbing small circles near the top. Her back went ramrod straight as she arched and keened in time with his fingers. He dipped one inside and she pulled him from her teat to attack his mouth with her own. He was knocked on his back from the sheer force she used, but she wouldn't stop. Was she really a maiden? Weren't they supposed to be shy?

Not that Sandor had any objections. As far as he was concerned, this only made things easier for him. His finger slid in and out of her cunt with startling ease, making the sexiest, most obscene sloshing noises he'd ever heard. He added another finger and she stiffened slightly, removing her mouth from him to grimace in pain.

"You alright?" he mumbled breathlessly. She nodded.

"I'm just... not used to it," Sansa replied breathlessly. She tried to undulate her hips on his fingers, her eyes focused on a spot on the wall of the tent. Her breasts swayed in front of his face, but he wasn't looking at _them_. She said she wanted to see his face, and by the nonexistent gods, he was going to see hers. He thumbed her clit, causing her to stiffen in a different way and still over him. He took the opportunity to switch their positions, rolling her over so she was on her back and he hovered over her, supporting himself on his elbows beside her head. He rubbed frantically at her clit while sliding his two fingers in and out of her sopping heat. Her mouth fell open in pleasure and his heart nearly beat out of his chest. She was so beautiful it hurt. 

"Sandor..." she called out. "Sandor please. Sandor." She was whispering his name out like a mantra.

"Sansa." He kissed her clavicle. "Gods..." 

She exploded around his buried digits, her juices dripping down his hand and her heat clenching him so fiercely he doubted he could remove his fingers if he wanted to. She came down from her peak, and stayed still for a while. He slowly removed his fingers from her, and found them bloody. Sandor guessed he was a little rougher than intended...

"Sansa," he rasped, gently as he could. She looked at him through her lashes, her eyes glazed and sated. It was almost enough to make him not say what he was about to, and continue with what they were doing. He resisted. "Sansa, it's done." He showed her his bloodied fingers. "We don't have to continue." She shook her head. 

"What?" he asked. 

"No," she replied. "I mean..." her eyes regained some clarity. "I mean, if you want it to be done there... but if you don't... I... Please, Sandor. Please, I want you."

His eyes went wide with shock. She could have slapped him and he would have been less surprised. Half of him wanted to pull back, to sneer at her for the foolish girl that she was for thinking she wanted the old dog who stole her 'purity'. Who never protected her in Kings Landing. Who stood by watching while a golden cunt of a boy king had stripped her, beaten her, and tormented her. He wanted to demand if she'd behave the same way for any other man who'd been lucky enough to find themselves in her tent. The other half wanted to take advantage over her (very tempting) offer, as long and as many times as she'd allow. He couldn't tell which would be crueler.

In the end, he decided to growl, "You want me to what, Little Bird?"

She blushed. "I want you to... take me. All the way. Please," she plead, ever courteous. He tried to ignore the ever growing tent in his trousers.

"Why?"

"Because you defended me when I was very small, and not very smart. You were kind with your actions where you weren't with your words. The opposite of everyone else in Kings Landing, if I recall. And... that night... you kissed me, and... I wanted more. I'm sorry if it's stupid-"

"Not stupid," he cut her off. He didn't remember kissing her before today, but like hell he was going to correct her. "Spread your legs," he commanded. She looked surprised. "Don't give me that, girl. You knew what you asked for."

She shivered, but obliged, providing a small opening between her milky, white thighs.

"Wider, girl," he said. Once more, she obliged, shifting her legs several inches further apart. Deciding he wasn't going to get much better results just by asking, he hooked his hands under her knees and arranged her, spread eagle, under him. He sat up to examine his work. Her sex was sodden, and her face flushed, and she looked every bit a wanton woman. Sandor couldn't stop the smirk from reaching his face.

"What?" she asked, embarrassed. Shit, didn't women like to be spoken to at a moment like this? He wasn't good at speaking sweetly. The best he could be was honest.

"Lookin' at you. Legs spread. Cunt wet and wantin' for an old dog. Couldn't help but smile," he told her bluntly. To his surprise, she smiled through her embarrassment. 

"I didn't do this so you could smile, did I?" Sansa told him, equally bluntly. He needed no further encouragement. Seeing no point in dallying any further, Sandor made quick work of his breeches and tossed them to the ground. "Shirt too," Sansa insisted. His grin widened, and his shirt joined his trousers on the earth floor. He pressed his mouth to hers, and her legs came to grip his hips, causing his erection to slide obscenely against her folds. She moaned into his mouth, and he grabbed his cock to guide the head to press against her opening. He momentarily broke from her lips.

"Ready?" he growled. She pulled him back down to her, kissing him with all the passion her small body could contain. He slipped inside, slowly, one inch at a time. She did not wince, or make a noise, but she gripped the sheets under her hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. She broke from him to look briefly at where they were joined, then she gasped and looked away. He laughed.

"Don't laugh at me-oh!" Her wet lips met his pelvis and he groaned, deep in his chest. She looked overwhelmed. Seven hells, he was _overwhelmed_. Her tight heat clutched him harder than he could imagine, soft, feminine muscles fluttering around his cock. She grasped desperately for his hand, and he accepted it, her small, dainty fingers intertwined with his large, crude ones.

"You alright?" he asked raggedly.

"It feels strange. It hurts!" she whimpered softly, clutching his hand like a lifeline. Sandor kissed her chastely, and slid his other hand down to her clit, hoping it would ease the pain of being bedded for the first time. Her hips began to pulse with his movements, small gasps erupting from her lips. Once he was certain they were of pleasure and not pain, he sat up and lifted her into his lap. She squeaked with initial surprise, but once he re-entered her, she let out a strangled wail of pleasure. He smirked at her wantonness and continued his attack on her clit. She undulated wildly with his strokes, and finally, when he could take no more, he began to raise and lower her onto his cock. She caught on quickly, and soon began to fuck him in earnest.

He gritted his teeth at the exquisite feel of her, knowing that no whore would ever be enough after this. The frantic little circles of her hips, the moans of genuine pleasure, seven hells, even her _scent_ entranced him. She never took his eyes away from his face, either, which was more than he could say for any whore. His hips pistoned up into hers and she groaned and instinctively rubbed her teats up against his chest, desperate for an even closer connection. Gods, he'd been an idiot for thinking otherwise. Love was real. He'd always wanted her. 

Sandor registered a tightening as her inner walls clamped and shuddered and pulsed around him. Her cries increased in pitch. She was close. Without breaking from her, he rolled her onto her back and pushed her knees up near her head, forcing himself to go in at a deeper angle. It was enough. Sansa let out a wail of pure pleasure as she exploded around him. It was enough to force climax out of a lesser man, but Sandor gritted his teeth and fucked her through her pleasure, taking his own with reckless abandon until the clenching of her inner walls proved too much. He jerked forward one last time, his seed spurting out in thick ropes deep inside her, and collapsed over her, barely managing to roll to the side enough so he didn't crush her. 

He sighed and tucked the Little Bird safely in his arms, and she returned his embrace. It was almost enough to forget where they were, and why they did what they did. Later, he removed himself from her warm embrace and dressed himself, then exited the tent. He saw a guard snickering, and while he wanted to put a fist through the man's face, he relented. He had a plan, and killing a guard before he had to would ruin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woosh! My first smut! All concrit and suggestions for the next drabble is welcome!


	2. Together Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1st installment of the childhood friends story requested by Birdy! I tried to do it all in one chapter, but in the end, I had to make it multiple chapters. Hope you like the first installment!
> 
> Not really sure how to describe the story, so just read it and tell me what ya think! No smut this chapter for obvious reasons...

It had been many years since Sansa, the little lady of Winterfell, had first kissed Sandor, the mangled mutt from House Clegane, but Sandor remembered it as if it were yesterday. He could still picture it clearly, the tiny little girl in her fine, blue dress toddling up to him and pleading entrance to the kennels. Sandor, who had been a surly, world weary boy of one and ten, had scoffed at her, told her that the 'doggies' she wanted to see so badly would eat her as soon as look at her, and sent the girl home in tears. She had returned a short while later with her father, the bloody lord of Winterfell himself, to demand entrance to the kennels. 

"Sandor, was it?" Lord Stark asked, striding toward him with his four-year-old daughter clinging to his hand. Sandor fixed his eyes on his feet.

"Yes, my lord," Sandor replied meekly, cursing his luck.

"I hear you won't allow my daughter into the kennels, is this true?" Lord Stark inquired, almost sounding bored. Sandor, certain that he would be flogged for such insolence against a Lord's daughter, straightened his back and glared into Lord Stark's eye. Even as an 11-year-old boy, he was almost as tall as Lord Stark, though not nearly as brawny. 

"Yes, my lord," declared Sandor. 

"Why?" asked Lord Stark. Sandor was taken aback. He hadn't thought anyone would ask him _why_. Normally, insubordination and insolence was greeted with the whip, reguardless of reason.

"I-I-I thought she would get hurt if she went in there alone, my lord. She's but a wee girl. One of those hounds c-could bite her arm off or somesuch." There was a note of pleading in Sandor's voice that he hated. Fear clenched at his heart, terrified that he'd somehow said the wrong thing.

Lord Stark sighed and gently pushed his daughter forward. "I suppose you'll just have to escort her. Whenever my daughter wishes to visit the kennels, it is your duty to make sure she comes out again safely, do you understand me, boy?"

Sandor nodded, and Lord Stark walked away, leaving his tiny, red haired daughter to glare up at him through pouty eyes.

"You have a funny face," the little girl squeaked at him. Sandor decided he hated the girl.

"You have a snotty nose," Sandor retorted. It wasn't true, but it was a good enough comeback for a 4-year-old.

"Liar," the little lady sniffed.

"Pipsqueak," he grunted in return. She marched into the kennels determinatedly, and he followed. He pulled her back by the scruff of her little dress when she got too close to one of the dogs, and it snapped at her, but otherwise, she was mostly bearable. The only other truly offensive thing she had done since entering was ask questions. Too many bloody questions.

"Why did you think the doggies were mean?"

"What's your surname?"

"Who's your father?"

"Was he nice? My father's very nice. And he protects everyone!"

"Why does your face look so funny?"

Finally, he could take it no longer.

"You're too bloody nosy! And my face isn't funny, it's scarred you tiny bitch!" he snarled, snagging her by her sleeve so she couldn't run away to her father. "If you're going to visit the kennels, you listen to me! Your father may be lord of Winterfell, but I'm the lord of the kennels and you have to listen to me and do as I tell you!"

She nodded, but looked up at him with defiance in her eye. He thought momentarily about hitting her until he was sure she wouldn't run to her daddy, but he thought better of it.

"Why is your face scarred?" she asked, her lip jutted out in a way that screamed childish disobedience to who was clearly her better. He woudl show her. He'd tell her a story that would give her nightmares until the end of her life.

"My brother did it," he hissed. She looked confused.

"How?"

"He shoved my head in a fire," Sandor replied.

"On accident?"

" ** _No._** On purpose. I was just playing with one of his toys, just one! Just a little toy knight he was too old for. But he found me with it, and he grabbed my hair, and he shoved my face into the fire in my room!" Sandor's voice was cracking, but he didn't care. "The pain was so bad I thought I was going to die. But it's not even the pain I remember so much as the smell of my flesh being melted away. Before your father found me, _my_ father decided to tell everyone my bedding caught fire so Gregor wouldn't take the blame for it. So precious _Gregor_ could still become a knight! He got to be a knight! And what did I get? I got to be sent off to be fostered by the great fucking Lord Stark, and be the lord of the fucking _kennels_." Somewhere, somehow, Sandor began to cry, the words coming out as hateful sobs and hiccups. Sansa stared up at him with a strange, pitying expression on his face. Like the ones the maester's wore when they gave him his ointments.

Sandor let her go and collapsed in on himself, clutching his hideous face in his hands and sobbing. He expected the girl to run away, back to her loving father to talk of the pathetic, mean boy in the kennels. He dug his shaking fingers into his face and hooked them into his scars as he sobbed bitterly. Then... something unexpected happened.

He felt a small hand close around one of his fingers, prying his hand away from his face as forcefully as a 4-year-old could muster. He jerked his head up when he felt it, and tried to stand, but she took hold of his remaining ear to keep him in place.

"Your brother was no true knight," said the little lady, then she pulled his head even further down and gave him a big, wet, attempted motherly kiss on the top of his head. After all, it was what her mother did to her when she cried.

From that point on, Sandor escorted the little lady into the kennels without complaint.


	3. Together Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the childhood friends story suggested by Birdy! Hope you enjoy. I want this story to have 5 parts, so strap yourselves in buckaroos, cuz it's gonna be a ride.
> 
> Also, WHOOSHER. That took a lot longer than I intended!

The second time Sansa Stark kissed Sandor was on the very eve of his first tourney. Many years had passed since their first encounter- so many years in fact that she scarcely even remembered it, only that he had been a constant companion to her since that day.

When Sansa was asked by her mother why she kept visitting the mean, harsh looking boy in the kennels, she always responded with a curt "He is my friend!" Her mother did not understand, which hurt her deeply, but in spite of her mothers discouragement, she kept visitting Sandor. She liked him. He was older than her by a lot, (though he wasn't yet a grown-up) and while he no longer played games with her as he once had, he tolerated her flouncing about him, and listened to whatever she said.

That was more than she could say for any of her big brothers, who, now that they reached the ripe old age of twelve, thought themselves too good to play with or even talk to Sansa. Her little sister, who was only five, was even less tolerable than her brothers. Arya-- or Arya Horseface as Sansa like to call her-- was wild to the point of recklessness, and was consistently filthy. Sansa hated dirt, and hated even more to have dirt on her.

Sandor, thus, became the person she spent most of her leisure time with. The instant she was released from her classes with Maester Lewin or Septa Mordane, she immediately darted down to the kennels to tell Sandor about her day. Sandor was usually working when she went to him, but he didn't seem to be particularly bothered by her presence, save for when she got in his way.

It was odd, she thought, that she never saw anyone else talking to him, at least not in the way she talked to him. Everyone else only approached him if they needed something, which Sansa didn't understand at all. Sandor was great company, so why would no one come near him? In the end, Sansa concluded that Sandor was simply so good at things that everyone brought their troubles to him, and because he was always so busy, he didn't have much time to talk to anyone for leisure. It made her proud to think that he made time to talk to her.

"You daft girl," Sandor said, wiping an oiled cloth over the blade of his new sword (which he was dreadfully proud of, though he would never admit it.) "Nobody talks to me because I've only got half a face. And the half I got isn't too nice to look at." He gestured to the left side of his face, which had, in the last 2 years, begun to sprout bristles and lose any hint of childishness it once had. Sansa did not think him ugly at all. He was Sandor. Just Sandor.

"Nonsense," she huffed indignantly. "You are fine just the way you are!"

He grunted noncommittally and laid down his sword in favor of picking up a piece of Ser Whitehill's armor to polish. In addition to assisting the kennelmaster with caring for the dogs, he had also been given the duty to inspect every piece of armor for each of the 20 or so knights that were to participate in the tourney tomorrow. He, himself, wanted to participate on the morrow, but her father had told him he could not unless all his chores were complete.

"Why do you want to join the tourney anyway?" she asked, looking around at the piles of armor he had to go through.

He glanced up at her. "Why do you think?"

She blanched a little in surprise. "Well..." she said thoughtfully. She knew he hated knights and had no desire to be one himself, so getting close to knights couldn't have been the reason. He thought honor was stupid too, so that couldn't have been the reason either... The more she thought about it, the less it made sense that Sandor would want to be a part of the tournament.

"Um... you wanna hit people?" she guessed nervously. Sandor barked out a laugh.

"Aye, that's part of it, lass, but not all," he said as he buffed out a scratch on Ser Backlemont's breastplate. "I... I suppose I want... nah. It's stupid." 

"What?" Sansa chirped.

"It's stupid," he countered.

"Come on, tell me!

"I don't want to."

"Please?" Here, she made her eyes go wide and fluttered her eyelashes just like she did when she wanted something from her father. The difference was, with her father it worked. Sandor just looked annoyed.

"If I tell you, would you stop doing that?" he growled. Sansa flinched, her feelings hurt, but nodded. Sandor sighed.

"I... I want recognition. Not because I want to impress any of those buggers, but because I want them to know me. I want them to know that a boy with no parents, no money, no _nothing_ can beat all those pretty knights into the dust," he told her, his voice low. He wouldn't look her in the eye. Her heart ached in response to his words, and she felt as though she understood something about her friend that she didn't before. Did he really believe he had nothing? He had her, after all. Wasn't she enough?

Sansa picked up one of the spare rags next to Sandor and dipped it into the icky oil. Then she picked up one of the many helmets he had left to clean.

"What are you doing?" Sandor grumbled, looking irritated.

"Helping?" she replied tentatively. "I am your friend, so it is my job to help you achieve your goals. You cannot prove yourself if you do not get finished with your duties," she said reasonably. Suddenly, there was a strange look in Sandor's eye. It reminded her of how her father looked at her sometimes when she said something he thought was smart. She smiled, a little unsure of herself.

"What's the matter, Sandor?" Sansa asked. Sandor shook his head and snatched the piece of plate from her hands. "Hey!" she protested.

"That's not how you do it, girl. You have to rub it in little circles, understand? And you're squeezing out too much oil, you need to wipe that off so there's only a thin sheen." He demonstrated the technique on the helmet, and Sansa paid close attention, just like the dedicated student she was. After he finished, she carefully mimicked his movements on the next helm. He slapped her back harshly in lieu of congratulations, and she beamed with pride.

They made their way through the piles of plate together, slowly and painfully, until Sansa's mother rapped gently on Sandor's door.

"Sansa? Sansa, are you in there?" Mother called to her. A shock of panic went through Sansa. Mother had told her not to be alone with Sandor. What would happen to her now that she had disobeyed? She shook her head frantically at Sandor. Maybe if Mother didn't know she was here, she could sneak out later and get out of trouble!

"She's in here, Lady Stark," Sandor barked traitorously. Her mouth dropped open, disbelieving. "Dinna give me that look, girl," he whispered to her. "She would have found out eventually. It's better she knows early on so she won't be so angry."

Mother opened the door and Sansa stood up abruptly.

"Mother!" Sansa squeaked.

Mother nodded decorously in Sandor's direction, ignoring Sansa completely.

"Thank you, Clegane, for watching out for my daughter," she said politely. Sandor nodded, but said nothing. Mother turned to Sansa.

"Sansa, it is time for you to go to bed."

"But Mother-" Sansa objected.

" _Now._ "

Sansa scurried out the door. Mother followed quickly behind. It was cold outside. It always was in Winterfell, but Sansa had neglected to take a coat earlier, back when the courtyard was warm with summer sunshine. Now it was dark, and the freezing wind ripped through her dress and chilled her bones. She shuddered violently, but kept herself inconspicuous for Mother's sake. Mother would be angrier if she realized Sansa neglected to prepare herself for the chilling weather.

Nevertheless, Mother seemed to notice anyway, and draped her own shawl over Sansa's shoulders. She clutched the fur nervously as Mother ushered her within the walls of the castle. The silence between them was heavy, but something told Sansa not to break it. Fear clasped at her heart. How angry was Mother? Did her rulebreaking now mean that she couldn't attend the tourney tomorrow? It was so unfair! She had to be at the tourney tomorrow! Sandor needed her!

They made their way into Sansa's room, and Sansa split off from her mother to sit on the bed. She expected Mother to leave her there, but she didn't.

"Sansa," said Mother, gently. Sansa gritted her teeth and stared guiltily at her shoes. Her eyes welled up with tears. It was so unfair. She hadn't been doing anything wrong. Arya got to keep all her little boy friends from town, so why couldn't Sansa have hers? "Sansa, it's alright. I'm not angry." Mother sat down next to her and pulled her close. Sansa broke down into tears.

"Wh-wh-why?" Sansa sobbed. "Why do you hate S-S-Sandor so much? He's j-just my friend! P-p-please let me g-go to the tourney tomorrow. He n-needs me! He doesn't have a mother or a f-father or a l-lady to cheer him on, so I need to d-do it! Please, Mother! Please! I-I swear I won't ever be bad ever again!"

"Hush, child. All will be well," Mother said soothingly, stroking her hair. Sansa was inconsolable. "Sansa, it is alright. I think I understand now. I... cannot say I approve all the way, but I do understand. I, too, had a friend like your Sandor."

Sansa glanced up at her mother through her lashes. "R-really?" she hiccupped.

Mother smiled. "Yes, I did. I..." Mother stared off into the distance, seeing something Sansa couldn't. "I was your age, maybe a little younger, when I befriended a young stable boy named Roland. He was... I don't know, maybe fourteen or fifteen, and I thought he was the best, most noble boy I had ever seen. He was like the big brother I never had. He was kind, and wise, and I loved him as much as you seem to love this 'Sandor'. Anyway, my father thought it was unhealthy for a young maiden to befriend such a lowborn, old boy. He forbade me from speaking to Roland, and sent him away to work on a farm, far away from Riverrun."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. That wasn't going to happen to Sandor, was it? She couldn't bear the idea of never seeing him again.

"I understand why my father made that decision. He acted in my best interest, and for that, I am grateful. Still, I cannot help but wonder... what would have happened if I got to keep my friend." Mother looked at Sansa strangely. "I will allow you to continue seeing your Sandor. But promise me, Sansa. Promise me you will always tell me, or your father, or Ser Rodrik when you go to visit him."

"But why-?"

"Sansa, promise me," Mother insisted.

"I promise," Sansa said.

"Good. Now, get ready for bed, sweetling." Mother stood up to leave.

"Wait!" exclaimed Sansa. Mother stopped and looked back at Sansa. "Can I please attend the tourney tomorrow?"

Mother smiled indulgently. "Yes, my dear. You may." Then she closed the door, leaving Sansa alone to squeal with happiness. She would get to see the tourney! All those brave knights fighting for the honor of their houses, and her best friend in the whole world was among them!

Sansa swung her legs up and flung herself out of bed. Now was not the time for sleep. Now was the time for action! She scampered quickly toward the small chest at her bedside and dug around for a needle, thread, and some cloth.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Sansa sat and fiddled nervously with the piece of cloth in her pocket while she sat in the stands. Septa Mordane sat adjacent to her, along with her father, her mother (holding baby Bran), her little sister Arya, her big brother Robb, and her half brother Jon. They were all waiting for the competitors to come out and greet the audience-- Sansa, with bated breath.

Did Sandor complete his chores on time? Was he alright? It would be a shame for her whole night of work to go to waste just because Sandor didn't get his chores done.

She nibbled apprehensively at the skin on her bottom lip, then turned her eyes skyward. _Old gods. New gods. Whoever's listening, please make it so Sandor can come fight today,_ she prayed quickly. Then, as if in answer, she saw him.

Sandor was peering out of the competitors' tent, obviously not ready to come out yet and obviously scouting the audience. A small part of her hoped it was to find her. If she were younger, she would jump up and wave at him to make it easier, but she wasn't a little girl anymore. At nine years old, she was a proper little lady, and proper little ladies did not behave in such an undignified manner, especially not in public. As it was, all she could do was stare hard and hope he would notice.

His eyes met hers. He nodded, then withdrew back into the tent.

Showtime.

"Septa?" Sansa inquired in her most innocent voice. Septa Mordane turned from her conversation with Sansa's father.

"Yes, Sansa?"

"I need to use the chamber pot. May I be excused?"

Septa Mordane sighed deeply. "Yes, you may, dear. But do remember to relieve yourself before-"

"Thank you!" she chirped, then bounded from her seat in the general direction of the castle. Once she could tell the Septa was adequately fooled, she changed direction and hurried around the back of the tent she knew to contain her best friend.

Sansa pushed aside filthy burlap canopy and made her way into the tent. It stunk to high heaven of sweaty, unwashed men, and she could not quite tell how she should walk through. Should she keep her head held high like the lady she was? Or shrink down and look as small as possible? On the one hand, she _was_ a lady, and she should make herself noticed as such. On the other... she wasn't strictly supposed to be there, so maybe the best course of action was to avoid anyone's line of sight. What would Arya do in this situation?

While she was lost in worried thought, a tall, bearded man spotted her. 

"What're you doin' here, little girl? E'nt you s'posed to be watchin' in the stands? Cheerin' us on or somethin'?" asked the bearded (and upon closer inspection, _very_ smelly) man.

Sansa didn't know what to do. Act proud? Run away? Stay silent?

She let out a sound like a mouse being trodden upon.

"Fuck off Darryl," said a gruff, thankfully familiar voice.

"Sandor!" she sighed in relief. The bearded man seemed less thrilled with her friend's entrance and turned to growl at him.

"Excuse you, boy! I'm a knight, and I bloody well expect ye to rem-"

"Alright. Fuck off, _Ser_ Darryl. Now you'll leave Lady Stark alone or will I have to tell her father about how you harrassed her when she came in to say good luck to us all." Sandor turned to her. "That is why you came here, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes that's it," Sansa murmured. Ser Darryl backed away.

"Well, get on with it," said Sandor pointedly.

Sansa straightened her back and tried to look fearlessly out at the crowd of sweaty, frankly terrifying men. And they looked right back.

"Hello, everyone!" she squeaked. "I just wanted to say good luck, and glory to you all!"

There were a few confused grunts and half-hearted cheers among the men. Sansa wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

"Alright, now it's time for you to go, girl," said Sandor, pushing her none too gently out the back entrance of the tent. It hurt.

"Wait!" Sansa yelped. "Ineedtogiveyousomethingplease!"

"What?" Sandor growled.

"I. Need. To. Give. You. Something!"

"What the hell do you want, girl? You're supposed to be with your mother!"

Tears pricked at her eyes. She only wanted to be nice! Why did he have to be so mean?She gritted her teeth and shoved her hand in her pocket, drawing out the small, yellow piece of fabric from within, then grabbed Sandor's fist and thrusted the hankerchief inside. His expression changed immediately from irritation to shock the instant his hand touched cloth.

"What's this?" he asked, clearly bewhildered.

"It's yours," she said. Now that she thought about it, what she was about to say sounded stupid. "It's... a favor. From a lady."

"What?"

"A favor. So that you'll win. People who get favors from ladies win tournaments. I wanted you to have it," she said bashfully, staring at her toes. Did he like it? Did he notice what was embroidered on it?

He unfolded the small piece of cloth in his hand and stared at it, then, without warning, he smiled. Her heart leapt. He liked it?

"Is that s'posed to be you?" he asked, pointing at the design in the middle of the cloth. She pulled his hands down to look at her handywork. The little black bird in a field of yellow.

"I didn't remember your house sigil. But I did remember the colors! And I just like birds, so I thought you might like them, too," Sansa explained helpfully. Sandor barked out a laugh.

"Aye, I like them well enough, little bird," he said, ruffling her hair affectionately. She pushed his hand off her.

"I am not a little bird!"

"Yeah, you are. Always chirpin' away about this or that, and this 'ere just proves it, eh?" He laughed again. "I've gotta go. I'll keep this."

"Wait!" Sansa called after him again.

"What?" Sandor groaned.

She grabbed his hand once more, the hankerchief with it.

"You've got to tie it around- like this," she tied the yellow cloth carefully around his index finger, then closed his hand into a fist. "And seal it with a kiss." Sansa placed her lips gently and carefully on his knuckles, hoping with her whole being that this sacred ritual would help him achieve his dream. She looked up at him.

"Win," she said simply.

Sandor did not lose a single match that day.


End file.
